the misty morning makes a muddy hike
as we make our way
to our one-night home

sticky leaves leave remnants
on every bit of clothing–
eight people, two hours,
the campsite rejoices in fresh-turned soil

we creep like caterpillars down the ravine
and slide our kayaks into Kentucky mud,
its bubbly burps rising to the top
of a lake we’ll make our own

our little fishies barely breathe,
growing gills by late cloudless afternoon
as our oars move in and out
of bird calls and a shadowy lagoon

a thrown-together meal
on a bank side blanket
fills our mouths with peanut butter,
cracker crumbs and tuna breath,
even the gurgling fishling
as she flicks her tiny tongue

the red sun drives us home,
where we will head west,
forever west, and our
Kentucky lake will make a memory
softer than a gliding kayak’s
song across rippling waters